Attention Span
by SilverCaladan
Summary: Bitterness and hate come hand in hand, much like death and life are intertwined. Long oneshot.


**A/N**: A long one-shot. I'm not telling you anything else except that I rated this fic R because of certain situations which you shall have to rationalize on your own. My fic, my rating.

No, I am _not_ dead. This proves it. Anyway, leave a review or send an email.

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Attention Span  
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One of the most prevalent observations that people make about me is that I let my mind wander too much. Apparently I have ADD or ADHD or NAFTA or some other unpronounceable acronym used by doctors as an excuse to make more money by proscribing useless medicine. My mother self-diagnosed whatever "learning disorders" I have because she thinks I am mentally retarded. Just because I don't have absolute straight A's doesn't mean I'm stupid, _mother_. Anyway, because I was doing average in school and not living up to her expectations, she obviously concluded the problem lay solely with me, and not with her.

Why do parents try to live through their kids? Mommy dearest claimed to set goals that she could have reached at my age, but what she neglects to take into account is that, thank god, I am **_not_** her. Sure, I'm just as pretty and with every bit the attitude, but dammit, I don't want to spend my days locked up in a cubicle in some dead end job that requires that stupid bachelors degree she wants for me.

Unfortunately, that's exactly what I'm doing. The cubicle part, anyway.

See, my _mother_ took my refusal to increase my GPA, as well as my constant sneaking out to handle Senshi business, to mean that I was a Problem. Not one of those run-of-the-mill delinquent problems that roam the inner city streets, but a **_Problem_**. I guess she thought I was hawking those idiotic drugs she forced upon me to my friends and running out to have sex with those _boys_ (what, is my mother a closet lesbian?).

Longer story and an angry physical reaction involving a lamp later, I ended up in overnight lockdown at the local jail.

Fucking bitch of a mother apparently didn't think the cops would take her false accusation of domestic violence seriously.

I should disown myself. I mean what kind of competent, loving mother breaks a lamp at her _own_ feet and then calls the cops to claim that her daughter threw it at her? One who is trying to force the fucking insane values she holds dear into the woodwork of her progeny's life, that's who.

Now I've got a rap sheet. Way to go, _mom_. Aren't you just so fucking proud of your baby now?

Unfortunately, the justice system highly frowns on emancipating a minor from a parent that, to them, shows little to no fault. Especially when the minor in question is portrayed as mentally deranged and unreliable. So I kinda forgot to show up to all of my appointments with my probation officer; getting your ass handed to you by various sword-wielding, life-draining, ugly-as-shit youma isn't very conductive concerning the area of good memory.

Which is another thing; when I get out of here I want to go take a piece out of my probation officer. He did jack shit to actually _help_ me "reform". No calls to my mother to worry about my absence from his office, boring as hell lectures in an annoying monotone rasp whenever I did find him, no fucking help at all. Then, he had the nerve to testify to the court that I was some sort of basket-case maniac because I didn't respond to him. God. I so wanted to just jump up and scream at the judge that the water stains on his **_ceiling_** were more interesting than that jackass.

That must be everyone's problem with me, I guess. I don't make a good, solid personality impression. Call me flighty, call me continuously bored, call me whatever else you use to describe someone who doesn't find boring things worth her attention span. Can I help it if the majority of the populace of planet Earth are dull dumbshits? I might protect them with all my heart from evil, but that doesn't mean I have to _like_ them.

In fact, the only people that I do like are the other Senshi, who accept me for what I am. They understand me, often without my having to express any of it or without fully knowing why I react certain ways. I swear, sometimes Usagi is so intuitive about how a person is feeling that she must be empathic... even if she doesn't act like it most of the time.

I miss her naivety, though. She never stopped believing that there was something good in _everything_, no matter how evil. When I think of how many times I've seen her make a new friend, or turn someone's life around just by being naïve and friendly... it makes me sick. Well, it is rather annoying. I mean, she _is_ friendly, and she _is_ naïve in a goodly innocent way... but she doesn't often act like the woman that inspires in us all the feeling that we have to protect her.

That childlike innocence and love is what really separates me from her. I haven't been innocent for a long time, and if I still were... well, I wouldn't be.

Because I am in a world of shit.

Innocence can't survive in a world of shit.

See, the judge decided that since I had skipped out on my probation, and several other charges were pressed (including dealing—turns out they can fake anything nowadays if they try hard enough) that I had to do hard time instead. HAH, the despair of an actual jail sentence was completely overruled by the perverse joy I got from seeing the shock on my mother's face at my sentence.

Nice plan you've got for my future there, _mother_. I'm sure there's a market for doctors who spent their late teenage years in jail.

When my mother burst out crying, I guess that really startled the judge. Instead of juvie, I got sent to a reform school. I really don't see the difference between the two, but apparently the state sees some reason to differentiate. Probably tax reasons or something.

But let me tell you, this isn't any reform school.

It is hell. And a **_freakin _**annoying hell too.

Let's put it this way. A reform school is basically a locked down, fenced in boarding school with no privacy and rigorous physical regimens. It is supposed to take the kids put into it, mash them up through an almost military-esque discipline, and place them back out in society after a certain amount of time as productive, educated citizens.

On the surface, Grover & Cambell Disciplinary School did all of these things.

Inside, though, things were completely different... if you were in the know or knew where to look.

This is where that shitty attention span of mine gets me into trouble again.

What adults like to call concentration is actually just focused attention onto one object in particular to the exclusion of everything else. I could never manage that sort of interest, especially when you add in my previous occupation. Not being aware of your surroundings at all times (i.e. concentrating) on the battlefield is actually a whole lot more deadly than you would think. I'm still alive today because I made it a point to focus on everything at once... and that habit carried over to my "normal" life. You never know when you are going to be attacked, after all.

However, this potentially life-saving habit, as already demonstrated, helped me fall into the pit where I now exist in the first place, and it just provided a tool to dig myself further in.

Perhaps if I'd been able to focus on the pitiful excuses for controlled sports (more like rough-and-tumble chaos) instead of watching those around me, I would be... **innocent**.

When you get right down to the bones of it, though, I am just as guilty as the actual participants. Probably even more so, for knowing of it and not doing anything.

This thing called a reform school is actually anything but. To tell you the truth, there's more illegal shit going on here than there ever was back home. Fully seventy-five percent of the school were junkies at one point or another, and most of them are looking for the quickest way back down that path.

If you pick the right guards, give all the right signals, prove your worthiness, and then fork over a shitload of cash... why hello mister neighborhood crack addict! I stay away from all that crap; it fucks you up pretty bad, and if any of the guards ever catch you high, it means a crippling beating and the solitary confinement cells, maybe even an increased sentence, if you get caught by the high-and-mighty.

Add in racial tensions and you've got a pretty volatile group of teenagers all living together in the same cramped, half-assed conditions.

I try my best to stay away from everyone. I just want to serve my time, dammit, I don't want to gain a crack addiction and several life-threatening injuries while doing it!

Anyway, Grover & Cambell is actually two different schools. Someone smart had to have run this school at some point in time, and they'd made the rather prudent decision to forcibly separate the male delinquents from the female. It was a small blessing that means I am subjected to slightly less sex.

Unfortunately, there's only one cafeteria, and it is the only place, outside of the yard, where male and female can hang out together. You'd think there would be a lot of making out going on in there, considering the cafeteria is open at all times (except after lights out)... but then you'd be missing the catwalks. Every minute of every day, those catwalks are filled with patrolling guards brandishing tasers (more for atmosphere than usefulness) and other, non-lethal crowd control devices.

But it's the guards stalking through the room that one needs to watch. I've been tasered once and that experience was **_more_** than enough for me. See, when a guard sees someone doing something that they deem wrong, like sucking face, the people doing it get tasered... as a sort of warning. Usually, it just makes them twitch for the next couple of minutes, but kids have been known to have seizures if the setting is strong enough.

The reaction is a hell of a lot different when fights break out. Not that they often do, as the guards are careful to confiscate anything that might be used as a shiv, but rival gang members sometimes get a bit... carried away.

My third month here in the "joint" there was a minor riot. One of the gangbangers had tripped another one, and the two fucking gangs had tried to rip each other apart. The guards in the room descended upon them immediately, and the _smarter_ guards on the catwalks dropped smoke grenades. I had a wonderful view of the action from underneath a nearby table.

I knew enough about protecting myself by then to be aware of the fact that running makes you an instant target. I am **_not_** very eager to fall victim to the hell that is a high velocity beanbag, and by then the guards were shooting at anyone near the fight, gangbanger or not. So as soon as I heard the shouting, I'd crawled underneath, searching for the dubious safety of the shitty linoleum floor.

Lucy, the girl who had been subtly educating me in the ways of the "joint", though I doubt she realized I watched her closely and tried to follow her example, had hit the floor next to me. There were other kids scattered about, presenting the smallest possible targets to the rampaging guards, and the din of a panicked crowd as they tried to escape through two small exits.

Eyes wide, I had watched as the guards struggled with some of the bigger, or craftier, gangbangers. One of them was lying on the ground, arm covered in blood, probably passed out judging from his deep, slow breathing. The fighting had just barely begun—I'd only been on the ground for maybe five seconds—and then I heard a noise I will never be able to forget. It was much more chilling than the screech of the dying youma simply because it seemed much more **_real_**.

The whole fucking "Silver Millennium" business always seemed sorta imaginary to me. There was this fantasy element; I mean, who can honestly believe that I battled freaky cheap monsters who stole dreams, hearts, energy, and other such intangible human objects on a regular basis? I don't remember anything about my fucking past life; I only believe I had one because of what Usagi and Artemis say. Is it any wonder that I often treated our battles against baddies like Beryl as horrific _dreams_ afterwards?

But this... it was _living_ darkness. The harsh "whumph" of beanbags knocking the air out of fighting kids reverberated throughout the room, overshadowed only by the sudden snake-like hissing of smoke bombs filling the room. I watched in shock as guards and gangbangers alike fell victim to intense coughing fits, damned by their compatriots on the catwalks. I only had enough time to wonder why the smoke alarms weren't going off before the smoke was upon Lucy and I too.

That was just _such_ a **fun** experience. Lucy, thankfully, yelled at me to hide my face in my shirt and curl up on my stomach before I got too much of the smoke in my system. Breathing through my shirt filtered most of the air, but then Lucy and I were dragged out roughly from under the table. Apparently the smoke had broken up the fight right away, and the _smart_ guards who had grabbed some gas masks or goggles and a handkerchief were rounding up all of the remaining kids.

Having experienced such fucking unusual events in the gauge of normality, I guess it is a given that I'd changed somewhat from the girl who was framed. My beauty **_certainly_** was no asset here; it just meant that I had to learn to fend off both male and female stalkers. Some of them were damn persistent, and one of them would have tried to rape me had not Lucy interfered. That was when she taught me how to make the best use of a shiv, and how to keep it hidden from the guards. I don't like having that shitty makeshift knife on me all the time, but it is great for intimidation, something that Lucy also taught me.

Lucy is one of my only acquaintances here on the inside. That's not surprising, really. I'm not a druggie, I'm not a gangbanger, and I'm not interested in sex/rape; those who want to just serve time like I do are a hell of a lot better off if they keep to themselves. After all, it is less likely to get caught up in anything potentially damning if there is no one putting on the pressure.

I picked at my mystery meat plate half-heartedly, glancing every now and then at Lucy, who was busy glowering balefully into her plate. She was still pissed over the fact that the school refused to release the letters from her family to her. Apparently threatening officials of the school in order to get a service the school was _supposed_ to provide already revoked the service that you never had in the first place. It was annoying, stupid, and unfair... but that was Grover & Cambell.

"What, not going to even bother to say a fucking 'Hello'?" My attention snapped from designing a meat-like volcano to Lucy's menacing tone. She threatened a lot of people on a regular basis (I guess that was how she got them to all leave her alone. I'm actually rather surprised that she hasn't gotten in deep shit because of it yet, though), but the anger in her tone was truly prevalent this time.

The boy merely looked at her, and there was something _genuinely_ dangerous in his gaze, something that made Lucy narrow her eyes and glare right back. "Flight" was apparently not part of Lucy's genetic inheritance. Then again, it's not a part of mine either.

"Look, **_boy_**, if you're going to sit at _our_ table and glare at _my_ friend, then you should at least tell us your fucking name." That 'boy' comment is usually considered a really low blow, so I was surprised that his face didn't change except to shift his glare in my direction. I jabbed the fork in my hand at his face menacingly. "Don't you _dare_ look at me that way, asshole."

Usually, such talk impresses the idiots in the reform school; it gives them the impression that you wouldn't hesitate to stick that fork in your hand in their eyeball, and thus one gains a sort of distant respect. More like anonymity, really, and the newbies are usually scared shitless by it, but this guy's expression barely changed.

"My name is Heero Yui." His cool, smooth tones vibrate between my ears: polite, dismissive, and incredibly, dishearteningly cold. There is a stretch of silence as all of us at the table watch, incredulously, as he eats in precise, controlled movements.

"What're you, some kinda fag? There's only **_one_** Heero Yui, and he's trolling for ghost chicks." A pale waif I barely recognize as some sort of pickpocket butted into our 'conversation'. Heero ignored him, focusing solely on his food, eating methodically.

"The fuck are you talking about, man? It ain't impossible for two guys to have the same damn name." Another testosterone-enhanced male took up the vastly increasing conversation. I rolled my eyes at their stupidity, though I did want to know what the huge hassle over the fucking annoying guy's name was.

"Living in a shitty cave, huh? That's the only fucking way you could have missed the fucking war." The waif stabbed his food angrily, tossing the words in the direction of the idiot standing near me.

"Dammit, will someone cut the shit and tell me why the hell any of you care about the fucking asshole's name?" Lucy's piercing tone made the waif glower at her; she always is one to cut to the chase. Actually, I was surprised that she had let them bicker so long. Perhaps she thought it was nice to not be the one arguing for a change.

Leaning forward, a calculating smile gracing his thin mouth, the waif confided in the table. "Yui is a legend on the colonies. Only one pushing for peace and happiness, he was, but the military fuzz didn't like that. They sent some hired dog to ice him in the middle of a public speech; instant martyrdom. These colonists hated that, so they trained them up some terrorists and sent them to Earth to wreck havoc during the Eve Wars."

Most of the table was nodding now, as if they understood exactly what the kid had just told them. I doubt any of them comprehend more than that it had something to do with the start of the war that had put many of them in here in the first place. I noticed Heero watching the conversation with a carefully schooled air, as if he knew things he wouldn't let on about. Smug bastard probably thought we were beneath his notice.

Yea, that's right Yui, we're nothing but a couple of incarcerated druggies and fucking hoodlums scheduled to be reformed. Just conveniently forget the fact that **_you're _**here too, buddy.

"Who I am named after is not important." Heero spoke up for the first time since announcing his name. That piercing blue gaze was trained harshly on the pale waif who had spoken, as if the boy had committed some sort of horrific crime by explaining.

"Like hell it isn't important, bitch. That name doesn't deserve a trash junkie in a shithole like you." The boy stood up angrily, shoving his plate abruptly in Heero's direction before stalking off. The drink tipped over, the juice dripping slowly off of the table between Heero and Lucy.

Both stare at the juice almost dreamily, as if they aren't really _seeing_ it. I roll my eyes at the general idiocy displayed, tossing my napkin with a neat little throw so that it lands and soaks up the spill. "So, Heero, what the fuck **_are_** you doing in a shithole like this, anyway?"

I speak as if the several minutes of my life wasted on that argument had never happened: calmly, inquiring politely to the reason for a neighbor visiting me in my own home. Which, in a sense, this... _place_... is my home, and Heero _is_ visiting.

Heero's head didn't move, but I could **feel** his eyes assessing my face, and through that, my intentions. Even though the plate in front of me had my attention right then, there's this _tingle_ that one can develop to tell you when you're being watched. That tingle, jingle feeling was sounding level five alarms in the back of my head.

Why is he so careful to think before he speaks, if he speaks at all? Not even Ami, the shyest person I've ever met, speaks so fucking little and so concisely. She babbles like the rest of us, and is just as hot-headed as Rei, provided you can get past her patience. This Heero is such an enigma, and he's only fucking rudely butted his way into my time a few minutes ago.

Actually, a few minutes can seem like years, so I don't know why I am so fucking upset by this guy. Perhaps it is because I get the same feeling from him as I do from the other senshi and Lucy—age.

It feels as if Heero has **_seen_** things, has **_done_** things, has **_experienced_** things that normal children cannot even fucking imagine. He has an old soul.

You'd think a prison-like setting brimming with convicted criminals would be crawling in souls similar to ours. Clearly, it damn well isn't. Almost everyone I have met inside is just a fucking mislead child with no one to set them "straight", and no urge to make a "decent" life. They may have done _things_ to get them inside this hellhole, but they don't feel **_old_** in the same way I do. Perhaps the difference is that they have seen and done enough things for one lifetime; I have enough experiences to last several—not counting the ones I may have already lived.

Wonder if Heero can **_feel_** things about me the same way that I can feel them from him. I highly doubt it; after all, this fucking sense was developed to sense the Negaverse's latest plot before it could accomplish any shit. Somehow, I can't imagine the bastard running around in a miniskirt thwarting the latest inept—no more than Usagi, anyway—attempt to carry out whatever the fucking megalomaniacs desire this time around.

"Breaking and entering. The old bat was insane enough to put a tracker in the back of a diamond necklace." Heero finally spoke up, his words approaching normal closer than anything he's done so far. It was disturbing. He's already established that he is _extremely_ anti-social. Is he trying to repair that... damage?

"Whatever you say, _Popsicle_." I smothered a rather loud laugh at Lucy's chosen derogatory nickname for Heero. I have to admit that it was really fucking brilliant; it describes his downright delicious looks and shitty, chilly personality perfectly. "Catch ya on the flip side." I wave half-heartedly at Lucy, who saunters away, throwing her trash at the can and missing completely, not caring.

"You'd look fugly in diamonds anyway, _Popsicle_." Oh look, the testosterone addict seems to feel it is safe enough to interrupt our "conversation" again because Lucy and the waif are gone. _And _he's figured out how to parrot back phrases too! What a **_smart_** man. Note to self: never, **_ever_** fall in love with men whose muscles alone weigh at least the same as my fucking bodyweight. Their minds are bound to be as large as their penises.

"Maybe you should go _cry_ for your momma in the Pit, ass, because no one here cares what the fuck you have to say." It's not a smart idea to bait musclemen. Yet here I am, doing exactly that for a boy that barely knows how to combine words into a sentence.

"What the hell did you just fucking tell me?!" the guy jumps up, his mass towering over my slight frame.

I glare up into his eyes, refusing to rise to the bait and stand up as well. This is what I live for, now. See, constant battle had another effect on me aside from my sharp glance. It made me an adrenaline junkie.

Ever since this _place_ made my duty to protect innocents completely impossible, I've slowly lost my will to live in a fucking useless world like this. There's no way I can protect Usagi from inside these walls, and no way to get out, even if I still _had_ my henshin stick. Too bad the Venus symbol on the end is considering a fucking weapon.

Then again, it's not like even death his-fucking-self will be able to free me from my currently impossible responsibilities. I'll just keep being reborn until the "glorious" age of the Silver Millenium, and probably still even then. Knowing that death has no hold over your life makes life itself cheap.

If I could, I'd just **_fly away_**. No more watching kids so high that they barely remember to breathe. No more constantly being on guard against attack by shiv. No more inescapable, horribly depressing guilt over not being there to protect the rest of the senshi when they need me. Only the air itself caressing my face, my body, my _soul_. But that can't happen.

Not even death will allow me to escape my fucking **_duty_**.

Somehow, that knowledge kills the joy I used to receive from the simple act of breathing. The air itself seems to turn grayer and duller with every passing day. Emotions matter less and less, beauty is a quickly passing wonder, and life runs together. This deadening effect spread exponentially until the only time that I feel even halfway _alive_ anymore is when I'm picking a fight with someone.

There's just something about being in danger, no matter how imagined or how slight. My pulse speeds up, sending the blood shooting through my veins and arteries, filling my body with a flush of heat, warmth, _life_. I see death lurking behind my vision, but I do not care; I am too caught up in the precious few moments of living this crap life. If I have to court death and his companion, danger, in order to feel their archenemy life, then _so be it_.

Growing tired of my silent glare, the male pulls his hand back, winding up to slap me. If those two guards stalking between the tables towards us have anything to say about it, he won't even get his hand near me. But do I want to let the guards with their tasers do my fighting for me? That would be so pathetic of me, to allow them to resolve my own problems and take away my joy.

"Don't you even_ try_." I hiss softly. Testosterone's face is too red for anything I say to resonate through his brain, much less be grasped. However, it is endless fun to say "I warned you" after twisting them into submission, so I can't resist trying to scare him off. Anyway, he's still an innocent; there's no touch of the Negaverse anywhere around him, or even in the general vicinity of this entire facility. He's just a deluded pile of shit trying to make some sort of living out of the crap destiny gave to him. I won't punish him for that. Heh, I still have some compassion, apparently... though leaving him for the guards to deal with makes that highly fucking debatable.

Face burning with rage, the male snaps his hand forward.

"Not causing _trouble_, are we?" His wrist, caught by a gloved hand in mid-slap, is jerked behind, quickly unbalancing the male so that he stumbles backwards into the guard's taser. I've seen this damn trick before. Testosterone will be twitching for a while, considering he got hit right at the base of his fucking spine. The second guard jerks Testosterone, somewhat harshly, into an occupied seat at another table.

The rest of the people—fucking cowards that they are—scoot mutely away from my end of the table. Then again, they could just be trying to avoid collateral damage. Crossing my legs primly, I smile prettily up at the lead guard, the one who "rescued" me from being slapped. "No, **_sir_**, no trouble here." Guard #1 is stupid enough to not recognize that my words are bathed in sarcasm; I can see it in his eyes. The other guard, though, he has to stifle a giggle most unbecoming of someone of the fucking law.

"Thought not." Guard #1 jerks his head towards the wall, and stalks off, trailing the other guard, who walks at a much more sedate pace. _He_ hasn't tasered anyone yet today.

I roll my eyes, watching them leave, so full of hubris and bustle. Testosterone writhes in the lap of a kid who can't get a firm enough grip to move him elsewhere. Poor guy, I **almost** feel pity for him... except he's a moron. But still, the whole fucking system is corrupted when guards can taser random innocent (depending on your definition of the word) kids and then leave them to die or live without a second damn thought.

"Does that happen often?" The faint, vaguely curious tones belie the blizzard in his eyes, which are only inches from my own. When did Heero get so fucking close to my face, and how in the nine hells did he manage it without my noticing...?

He... he smells... **_clean_**. Like the sheets that Mrs. Tsukino put on Usagi's bed every day: soft, fluffy, almost like sleeping on a cloud. Like the flannel that hid in the back of my closet, a much loved and hidden souvenir: warm, comforting, gentle, and always there. The scent wafted off of him gently, quickly fading into the grease and dirty smell of Grover & Cambell, but it was _there_.

Life, love, sweetness, fluff, brightness, crispness, children, happiness, lightness, fun, breath, sun, flowers, _home_... he smelled like **_home_**. Heero had a _home_. Oh God, the poor boy... he had a _home_. I almost burst out crying right then and there. Ice King of the world, but he had a fucking _home_, and yet he was **here**.

I look into his frigid blue eyes, seeing the lack of emotion only distantly now, an inescapable sadness welling up behind my own as I softly mutter so that only he can hear, regret mixing audibly with the sadness, "All the time."

Heero pulls back, taking away the heavenly scent of _home_ with him, but keeping my gaze. As the subconscious depression triggered by all the memories fades, my normal attitude asserts itself. I take a few steadying breaths, bringing my own fucking mask back into place as if it had never disappeared (which it didn't, of course).

"Watch your back, **_Popsicle_**, or you'll lose what you never had." I place my hand on his shoulder, using it as leverage to stand up quickly. Quicker than I can stalk away, Heero grabs my wrist quite harshly, bringing me up short and pulling me closer to him. But he doesn't say anything, or try anything but staring into my eyes with that death glare of his. I narrow my eyes right back, and wrench my sore wrist out of his slowly loosening grip.

I practically jog away from Heero, Testosterone and Meat St. Helen's long forgotten, heading for the outdoor yard for some relatively fresh air and purifying heat.

Yea, the yard. At first, I was surprised that a place so like a prison would have a yard, but it isn't really what you think. Just some concrete area surrounded by high walls and barbed wire. There's a track for running, an area reserved for basketball, and a place for people to sit and talk. Most people just come out here to soak in some sun and talk freely with their cellmates, but I prefer to stay in shape as best I can...

Habits are hard to break, even the good ones.

Pacing my strides as my feet encounter the track, the repetitive pounding consumes my mind. This is exactly what I wanted: to lose those bothersome thoughts about that _bastard_ and his secrets in the all-consuming pattern of physical fitness. I count, softly, timing my steps and lulling my thoughts into a meditative state.

Slowly the twinge of each muscle protesting its use penetrates through my zen-like state, threatening to send me crashing to the pavement if I abuse them any further. Calm mask completely restored, I limp my way past the other exercise freaks towards my cel—excuse me, room.

"Yo, **_Popsicle_**, where the fuck do you think _you're_ going?" Shit. I go outside to escape the stupid melodrama and all I do is run smack dab into it. There's no mistaking that hatefully twisted version of a voice, even if the nickname hadn't been a huge, blinking clue as to the owner. Dodging back around the corner before they notice me, I watch the soap opera unfolding in front of me apprehensively.

The Ice Bastard does nothing but glare at the gaggle of guys as if they were mere ducks begging for something he would never bestow upon them. Looks like Testosterone is trying to get back at Heero, and he's brought along his homosexual slaves to help.

Fucking pricks picking on the new kid. Testosterone hadn't even really gotten into a fight with Heero, if anything, **_I_** should have been the one he was going after. But, no, I've made myself an extremely tough target so he goes after the fucking newbie over whom the fight started. Cowards to the core, each and every one of the pigs.

"Awww, cat got your tongue?" The mocking tone gets no response other than a slight glance out of the corner of Heero's eyes. Somehow, probably by instinct, he knows that Testosterone is the one actually running the show.

"Dude, I don't think he's gonna beg. Just beat the shit out of him before I get in fucking trouble." One of the slave boys shifts uncomfortably, watching his companions for their agreement.

"No. He has to die a long, slow death. The snotty bastard deserves it for embarrassing me like that." Testosterone stuffs his hands in his pockets, slouching forward with a sickening sneer. Heero still hasn't reacted, probably in shock.

"Then why the hell aren't we going after that slut that—"

"I've got other plans for _her_." My body stiffens against the wall on its own. Damn it all to the nine hells and back, the guy plans to murder Heero **and** do worse things to me all because he got fucking tasered in the cafeteria.

God, why does this always happen when I'm around? Is it not enough that I have to fucking give up my dreams to fulfill someone else's unwanted _destiny_? Do I _also_ have to endanger every single crappy person that I come into contact with?

Without fail, those around me that I even look at nicely are in constant danger of death.

Without fail, some innocent gets dragged into the all-out, knockdown fight between me, _destiny_ (that bitch), and death.

Testosterone whips a shiv out of his pocket, advancing on a frozen Heero.

Shit. I swore that **no one** would get hurt because of me again, and I fucking _mean_ to keep that promise.

The next thing I know my battle mentality has taken over, and I sprint around the corner, complaining muscles forgotten, dodging quickly past an immovable Heero and... onto pain. Mind-blowing, bone-searing _pain_.

Everything blurred into the bright burst of agony radiating from my entire chest. It felt like I had been gutted; sliced completely through and through. Not even fighting Beryl and her minions had been this bad. Then, I had had adrenaline to numb the excruciating feeling long enough for me to concentrate on dying with dignity...

The panicked screams of some hapless girl vaguely penetrate through the burning torture spreading outwards rapidly. Cool ice touches the inferno gently, doing _something_. Probably trying to keep me alive, the part of my mind that has detached itself observes. It's so weird... one part of me is experiencing every flicker of pain that sears my synapses in loud, screaming agony and the other parts are watching dispassionately as I bleed all over the tile floor... and Heero.

Heero must be the one with cool arms who is trying to help but is only making it fucking worse with his every movement!

".... **_Burns_**..." I gag uncontrollably, my strength sapping away even as everything comes crashing down into these few last intense moments of _feeling_.

Silence comes from the direction of Heero, the innocent that I'm giving my life to save. All he does is hold me in his cool arms, only seeming to infuriate the pain to greater depths with his remote attempts to save my life.

I hold his gaze, beyond the pain, trying to convey all of the struggles that have culminated in this one moment. Parents, friends, deaths, murders, blood, heat, passion, hate, anger, exhaustion, bitterness, loneliness, friendship, what-could-have-been—he gets it, I hope. But that cool gaze remains unreadable, not even allowing me a glimpse into his psyche when I'm on the verge of death for _him_.

Tears, cool droplets fall on my face, trying to follow me into short-lived oblivion. Heh, Ice King actually cares.

Do you see, Heero? See the flames consuming all of my memories? The inferno will come for you eventually. It's unstoppable. But maybe yours won't be as painful.

Maybe you'll actually have a chance to fly away.

Maybe you'll---

* * *

_  
_

_Some bright morning when this life is o'er,_

_I'll fly away;_

_To that home on God's celestial shore,_

_I'll fly away_

_When the shadows of this life have gone,_

_I'll fly away;_

_Like a bird from these prison walls I'll fly,_

_I'll fly away_

_Oh how glad and happy when we meet_

_I'll fly away_

_No more cold iron shackles on my feet_

_I'll fly away._

_I'll fly away, Oh Glory_

_I'll fly away; in the morning_

_When I die, Hallelujah, by and by,_

_I'll fly away I'll fly away._

_ Alison Krauss – I'll Fly Away _


End file.
